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Old 09-24-2015, 01:34 PM
Melorandor Melorandor is offline

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Default Something I have been working on(WIP)

The embers of a dying campfire cackled under the husk violet hue of Nagrand's early morn. The campfire laid in the middle of a makeshift station, in which silence had taken hold since last night's debacle. Dead bodies of orcs littered the camp-a tattered Orcish banner covered one of the dead bodies. Signifying that these Orcs belonged to a clan, it bared the symbol of the Warsong. The dead bodies were soon enveloped by a massive figure.

The shadowy figure was soon joined by three others. "Boss! When we eats? I see no sign of Orci-" "Silence dumbo, I can still smells orcish filth! Da king will have our heads if we don't bring him Hellscreams!" Barked a grotesque voice. The figures belonged to four Ogres, decked with crude plated armor. They bear the symbols of the Gorian Empire, a once massive and powerful empire that controlled much of Draenor, a good time before the arrival of the Draenei. The Gorian Empire stands at the twilight of its power, once ruled by powerful Sorcerer-Kings. Even their once iron rule and power could not aid to halt the Gorian Empire's decay.

Not only as time passes, the Orcish race which had been subjected to Gorian cruelty and slavery, has risen up in recent months to aid fuel to the fire that burned the vestiges of the Empire's hold. Not long ago, a brutal slave uprising occurred in the confines of the Ogre Empire's impressive seat of Power- Highmaul. Led by one of Highmaul's tactful and feared gladiators, Kargath. He severed his own hand, and led the other begotten gladiators to freedom through bloodshed and vengeance, bestowed on their former Gorian audience. Thus birthed one of Draenor's feared, mysterious and sadistic clans, the Shattered Hand.

Many of the Orcs who can call no other clan home are welcomed by the Shattered Hand. They are initiated through rituals, which involve smashing ones hand with a rock before severing it from the body, in turn replacing it with a weapon of ones choosing. The Orcs are left sadistic and twisted from the rituals, partaking from the clans cruel beginnings. Stalking through the shadows, preying on the Ogres that loitered around the camp, rummaging through the supplies the Warsong left over- Awaited an Orc.

The sly Orc took advantage of the still dark morning that remained over Nagrand. His face looked dead and scarred. Piercings lined the scars, with a smile that would strike the soul with terror. His name was Gargarim. Carefully pacing around the camp, equipped with sharpened daggers decorated with Arakkoa feathers, drenched in the putrid sewage in Highmaul, hoping if his first strike doesn't kill-perhaps infection would take in. Gargarim waited for the moment to catch his first Ogre victim of the day, noting the four goons taking interested in the rummage.

"Ay Boss! Look its what we found! BOOOSSS!" "What you lame skull!? I told you to keep your dumb eyes out for any signs of Hellscreams dogs!" Barked the supposed leader. Gargarim took note of the 'shepherd' Ogre, pacing his steps to his movement, waiting for him to stop. The leader took interest in an axe that was planted into the ground, reaching out his hand to yank it out of the ground. Suddenly halted by Gargarim. Gargarim lunged at the head Ogre, leaping at him as if he was a Saberon-Planting his blades in his back and slowly ripping down his exposed back.

Blood spilling out onto the dirt ground. The other Ogres reacted with a shock and fear, before Gargarim leaped at to the closet one. Sinking his daggers in the diaphragm of the large Ogre. Tearing his chest wide open, cracking his rib cage in the process as the poor Ogre feel to the ground. Gargarim satisfied with the two Ogres already fallen by his daggers, takes leap once again, lunging himself to his next prey.
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